As the Moon Looked On
by Tarlea
Summary: Rated M. A scene from Anthony and Edith Strallan's honeymoon; with beautiful fanart by soddingcloudgazer on tumblr!


Note: Rated M for sexual content.

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 **As the Moon Looked On**

Warm air spilled over the contours of Edith's face and tugged at her hair. She inhaled gently. The fragrant heat of the Mediterranean night filled her lungs and pressed comfortingly at her eyelids. It was unseasonably warm for May even in Marseille, but after a damp chilly spring at Downton, the early summer was invigorating. She closed her eyes again, feeling another warm breath float through her delicate nightdress and splay across her bosom, a contented smile curling her lips.

A soft puff and a groan met her ears; and the smile stretched wider. She turned towards the sound, her eyes following the imperfect silhouette which stretched from her ankles, thrown by the moonlight at her shoulder, to where it fell across the long-limbed sleeping form of her husband.

She watched as the breeze from the large window caught a strand of his hair, dashing it like the gentlest of tides against his cheek. Letting her eyes wander voyeuristically, she followed the drape of the light linen sheets where they fell away from one broad shoulder and down across his stomach; not as flat or taut as a younger man's might be, but still lean and curiously enticing. Married four days, Edith was still getting used to the simple pleasure of knowing what his belly button looked like; or being able to touch, or even taste the divots of his wide collarbone, before only glimpsed beneath decorous layers of tweed and linen; or the supreme comfort of his warmth against her own as she slept.

He'd fallen asleep ahead of her tonight; but she didn't mind. He worried awfully that he wasn't enough for her, she knew. But the truth was as she told him; when they were together it was so special, and well, _enjoyable_ , that it was enough. In fact, she suspected she might find it exhausting to experience the all-consuming thrill of love making with Anthony in quick succession. She smiled again then, her cheeks dimpled with amusement. None of their acquaintance could ever have guessed that the correct baronet could evoke such sensational orgasms.

He was an incredibly selfless lover, his carnal attentions just as kind and heart-achingly sincere as his usual demeanor. He didn't simply possess her, he bared his adoration and need completely to her; giving her the power to release it like a tide which swept over and engulfed her. Every touch was an unabashed declaration: "I love you, let me give you the gift of my body." And she would accept the gift gladly, feeling the same invocation resounding through her.

She wondered suddenly if there were a more ruthless side to his bedroom manner; a little less tentative adoration and a little more selfish indulgence, perhaps? His sense of humor, which peeked out from behind his well-bred reserve, had a wicked edge to it when he chose to reveal it; and, she mused, his love-making might as well. She rather thought she looked forward to the time when he'd loose that part of himself. Her body certainly did, for the thought sped like an electric current from brain to bosom, which obligingly thrummed its assent and roused a tingling pulse between her thighs.

"Is everything alright, my darling?" Anthony murmured sleepily, making her start and blush furiously into the moonlit darkness.

"Yes." She turned back towards the open window to hide any traces of her shockingly amorous thoughts. "It's just such a beautiful night. And I couldn't sleep."

"Mmm. Warm though," he said, with a grunt.

"Yes, isn't it though," Edith said luxuriously, spreading her arms and lifting her chin as if in pagan worship of the moon.

He gave an amused "hm," and she heard the bed groan as he shuffled himself into a sitting position. There was a pause while he adjusted his limp right arm, and then she heard him ease himself to his feet.

He hovered uncertainly at the foot of the bed for several seconds, until Edith turned over her shoulder and smiled at him expectantly. His mouth twitched sheepishly, but he closed the distance between them and put his good arm around her waist. She leaned back against him, feeling his contented exhalation shush past her ear. She loved the way she felt in his embrace, small and graceful, as though she could wrap herself in him like a protective hide, his tall form solid and secure against her softer features. She placed her hand on his where it rested against the curve of her stomach as if to reiterate the appropriateness of its being there. _My husband, s_ he thought blissfully for the hundredth time since the wedding, feeling the elation of the thought and relaxing her head even further against his shoulder.

For several long moments they stood like this; stirred only by the light wind and the rise and fall of their own breath.

Edith was roused from this dream-like state by the gradual tensing of his body; the fingers constricted slightly beneath her palm, the arm around her waist hardened, and his steady breathing became heavy and distinct. Her brain was just beginning to register curiosity when the answer came.

"Edith, do you regret marrying me?"

The voice was calm; matter of fact, as if this was a concern that could be dealt with accordingly; the same as if she was feeling cold and needed her wrap.

Edith gaped at the empty air in front of her. She closed her mouth, starting to turn, but felt his muscles contract defensively. Heeding the unspoken plea, she remained facing the window; but twined her fingers through his. She slowly raised his palm to her mouth, bowing into it and kissing it. Then she held their mingled hands against her mouth as if praying.

She felt the lump growing in her throat, sending an ache down through her chest as if she had tried to swallow a walnut whole. Ever since she'd met him again after the war, Anthony had acted like she was his savior; that she'd charitably drawn him out of loneliness into life. She realized now that she had never expressed properly to him that he'd done the same for _her_. And furthermore that she'd _wanted_ to do it; she'd wanted _him_ ; _loved_ him. In their world, marriage was so tangled with tradition and duty that he may have thought she'd simply married him to avoid spinsterhood; that in the postwar dearth she'd simply counted herself lucky to secure a living husband of gentle birth. She had to make him see the truth; that she'd counted herself lucky to be granted a second chance with him; that she had been lucky to secure the man she _loved_.

"No, Anthony. I do not regret having married you." She let this linger for several long moments, still breathing into his knuckles.

"I do, however," she continued slowly, feeling tears spring to her eyes, "regret that I have not made it clear to you how _happy_ I am. How much I—" her throat constricted in a sob and she swallowed hard against it. "I love you so, Anthony." Large drops rolled down her cheeks.

His arm jerked into a crushing grip, then relaxed, though still pulling her tightly against him.

"Truly?" he said thickly, words half muffled by her hair as he nuzzled her beseechingly.

"Anthony," she said, a little impatiently, though her breath gasped from deep within her as her body responded to the ardency of his touch. "I may be young, but I am not stupid. I've promised myself to you, and I've shared your bed. I don't know how else to show you that you are my _choice_. Not…a concession," she struggled to find the right words, a process becoming all the more difficult with every labored breath Anthony puffed into her hair. Her impulses pulled her in all directions at once. She wanted to gather him up in her arms and hold him; she wanted to kiss him senseless; she wanted to have him so fiercely that he would be convinced of the truth of her affection by sheer force. Shocked by the violence of her desire, she did none of these, but waited for him to respond.

He made a strangled noise, and she felt his body heave with what she realized was a sob. Wrenching herself to face him, she cupped his drawn, tear-damped face between her hands and kissed him.

"I love you, Anthony. _I love you,"_ she repeated, kissing him again.

And again, and again and again.

He responded urgently, tears stalling as anguish was dissolved in naked desire. He surged with a crazed energy. The strength of his passion carried him beyond restraint; if she _truly_ wanted him, then he _must_ have her; completely and unreservedly.

"Edith," he rasped against her ear, "I know I'm old and a fool, but _God I do love you_. And God forgive me, _I want you_."

It wasn't exactly poetry, but Edith wasn't thinking clearly anyhow. She felt dizzy and her skin fizzled as though she were beginning to break into particles; sublimating into a gas so that her body might better meld with his.

Through searing breaths she heard herself respond "Then _have me_."

Like a red flag before a bull, that short phrase banished the last of his sanity. Riding the exhilarating madness that replaced it, kissed her, with a determination that would have left her on the floor if not for his crushing hold on her waist.

She was vaguely aware of the solidity of the mattress against her arm. And then the tide broke and she tumbled into a sea of white-hot sensation. They joined inelegantly, but intensely, arcing and clutching and pulling to bring the other closer; to break through the barrier of skin and flesh to reach heart and soul. A guttural harmony signaled the eventual release of each soul, escaping one into the other as sweat slicked muscles strained and quivered and then relaxed.

As she came back down to earth, Edith was aware of a pulse, the base of his spine beneath her thumb; the ache of his powerful claiming throbbing between her legs, his long arm hot and sticky against one hip. She opened her eyes. Clear blue eyes looked back at her, etched with wrinkles and luminous with joy and sheer adoration.

She nuzzled forward to press a kiss to his mouth. Then she lay back, her forhead nestled against his jaw, and closed her eyes.

"Sleep well, my sweet one," he exhaled drowsily.

And they slept, as the moon looked on.

XXX

 **A/N: I wrote this one partly to combat Fellowes' casual and totally unfair dismissal of Edith's affection for Anthony as "post-war desperation." So take that, villain! "Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man!" (As Shakespeare would say.) Long live Andith!**

 **Fabulous art by the equally fabulous Ida/soddingcloudgazer on tumblr.**


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